Chapter 5

"How do you feel, Mr. Robinson?"

They were out in the yard one morning, and Jennifer's voice was soft as she tried to interpret the impassive mask the man wore. It was hard to imagine him mentally afflicted out there, alone with him, but Jennifer did have her responsibilities as a nurse to remember.

He turned to her, a lock of hair coming displaced from behind his ear and drifted to half-cover his high cheekbone.

She sighed as she looked at him. Lately, her romance novels were becoming more and more painful to read, as they influenced her emotions while she was with Mr. Robinson in the day. Subsiding into a willing reverie, she wondered how Mr. Robinson would kiss. Not that she would ever know, of course; he was still disgusted by her 'sheep-like characteristics' and her 'likeness to the Ex-President Taft of the U.S.' and 'positively disturbing stubbornness in all matters Christian' and 'atrocious quasi-talent in the kitchen'. She knew that a man who thought such things of a woman—and straightforwardly told her so—would never be inclined to kiss her. At least, not in reality; Mr. Darcy was a different matter altogether.

Despite her hopelessness, she allowed herself to just . . . imagine it. While he sat, staring in contemplation at a cluster of other trees in the distance, she closed her eyes and pretended . . . pretended that now he was turning to her, saying, as if they were juxtaposed into a romance novel . . .

'You're sad, Jennifer. Tell me why.'

'Oh, dear Mr. Robinson, you wouldn't understand. It's just so dreadfully complicated. I feel so foolish!'

'What is it?'

'I . . . oh, ducky, it doesn't matter, it's just . . .'

Jennifer turned away, wondering what she ought to say. She couldn't admit that she was in love with him, it would never work between them . . . the nurse and the patient . . .

'Would this make it any better?'

And she gasped as his strong arms encircled her neck, and she felt cold shivers of apprehension as his face drew near hers, and she almost screamed with enthusiasm as she felt his lips grace her own in a passionate first kiss. Deep, dark, and longing, she realized . . . oh, the impossible! . . . that he was in love with her as well! His nose made the initial contact a trifle awkward, of course, but he turned his face slightly so it no longer was problematic. The sharp tongue that had so often criticized her now instead caressed her, the irony sent her into -

She was broken from her reverie, with Mr. Robinsons real, significantly colder voice. "Old," he replied carefully, in reply to her previous question. She could not help but admire his eyes—so rich and black and warm!--almost animalistic as they focused on a corner of the iron bench. Aquiline, Jennifer decided, definitely like a horse's . . . both beautiful and unfrightened and dually unfrightening. He caught her gaze, then, his eyes drifting upwards to make contact with her own.

A sudden sensation struck Jennifer, and she felt every emotion, sight and sound memory she ever experienced flooding the front of her mind. She could not focus on the fact that he was gazing at her steadfastly, as if he wanted to say something desperately important—her mind was too overwhelmed with the sudden onslaught of memories.

All sorts of things came to her mind . . . memories she herself thought were long gone. Being teased by schoolmates because she was a slow student in every subject except sewing. Her first job interview, which was an utter failure. The Pythagorean theorem, and the picture of a delicious ice cream cone next to it in her Algebra textbook from secondary school. Her best friend Chelsea, who had moved to New Zealand. The day her waistline became too broad to fit into her favorite tweed suit, some ten years ago. Her last trip to visit Chelsea in New Zealand, all expenses paid by her immensely rich but very generous husband. The traveling pastor who had visited the institution some years ago who had been desperately cute. Ultimately, too, the insuppressible love she felt for Mr. Robinson and her very recent fantasy of them kissing.

And then, just as suddenly as it had settled upon her, the strange sensation vanished. Jennifer shook her head forcibly to clear it of the strange haze, similar to the dust hanging in the air after someone obnoxiously stomps about in a dust pile. She looked at Mr. Robinson, whose attention had been drawn away from her by an invisible motion in the trees or some such. She shook her head again, violently. That was certainly the strangest feeling she had experienced in a long while, and it left her highly disconcerted.

"Are you all right, Jennifer?"

If she were a more frail or susceptible woman, Jennifer would have swooned there. However, as she considered herself rather practical and sensible, she withstood the impulse—it was, after all, only her imagination which had tricked her ear into thinking he sounded very concerned. So concerned that she dared to compare his tone with that of when he declared, "I killed her" in the middle of his nightmares. And right now, he did not look as though he himself had unintentionally wounded her . . . he did not appear apprehensive as a man who had unintentionally put his loved one into danger . . .

"No, I'm absolutely all right, I suppose I might just be getting a headache." Not a lie, that—my heart's pounding so that it makes my head truly throb too!

And then, in exactly the manner she had dreamed not minutes before, albeit more hesitatingly, he placed his hand on her shoulder. "Would . . . would this make it any better?"

It was just exactly what she imagined. His arms, wiry and supple, were at first virtually unsure what to do with themselves, but they soon caught an understanding of the moment and gently snaked their way around her shoulders, drawing her closer to him. Uncannily, just as she had predicted, his nose made a predicament when he tried to kiss her, and rather got in the way.

This setback made him retreat slightly, and Mr. Robinson seemed a bit shocked at what he had almost done. Seeing, though, Jennifer's quiet chuckling, he graced her with one of his rare smiles in return. "That was worse than expected," he said sourly, then tried again, with a new confidence, turning his head a little more than necessary for the second attempt. His large, beautiful, Roman nose just grazed her own pudgy one softly, but then their lips met, and she completely forgot it.

The experience was better than she imagined, which was a fortunate thing for her, since she had feared for years that the experience of kissing somebody would be a let-down unequal to anything else. She was utterly and completely pleased to discover that she was wrong in this supposition.

It was long, deep, and passionate, steeped with all the poignancy and romance of every great cliché kiss in film and television. It was her first kiss, and utter magic. She simply melted there in his arms, and was absolute clay. If he had insisted they jump off a cliff, take a motorcycle ride across the Atlantic, or start shagging right there, Jennifer would not have hesitated to concede. It's foolish, this thing, but . . . Lord! I love this man!

Incredibly to her, he seemed to love her in return.

"You . . . you love me?" she asked, as his head fell to leaning on her soft shoulder, as he still clasped her tightly in his arms. A low chuckle—one of the few good-hearted forms of expressing amusement he showed—shook his body with nearly silent mirth.

"You could say something to the accord," he stated. In a way reminiscent to when they first met, he buried his head in her chest, pulling her as close to him as physically possible, in attempt to defy the laws of mass displacement.

"I . . . I can't imagine why," flustered Jennifer, wondering why she was so ineloquent. In any proper Austen novel, she would have something quite cute to say, which would lead to another kiss on the man's part. "I've done really-"

"-Is that to say that you do not return my affections?" he interrupted, obviously not serious, but rather amused.

"No, no, I do!" she replied vehemently, giddy and excited. "I love you! I love-"

At this point, though, she broke off, remembering sadly that she still did not have anything besides "Robinson, U.(for unknown) on his files". He seemed to remember too, at the same instant, and looked a little dejected.

"You don't know my name . . . but you still love me. Alas!" He was bitter now. "How these trivialities dominate our lives! Ah, the blessings of modern society!"

Jennifer said nothing, wondering if now he regretted his confession.

He turned to her, impulsively, a cryptic lopsided smile on his countenance. "Well, Jennifer, I believe you deserve the only fair experience of knowing something about me. My first name is Severus. But, pray, never ask me for my last. I beg it of you."

She breathed the word on her lips. Severus. She could think of no more fitting name.

"That's beautiful, Severus."

Then, of her volition, she decided to play the stronghold, and raised his chin. The melancholy eyes enchanted hers again, and the pair kissed once more.

He tasted a bit salty, she decided, but with a hint of the orange scones they made for breakfast that morning. There was a quiet passion in his grasp, as if he were restraining himself, or not quite wholehearted. His reserve, nevertheless, lent a chaste feel to the situation, and Jennifer could imagine nothing but the idea that they were in an 1800s romance novel. It was beautiful, positively divine.

They remained there in silence for the better part of an hour, actually; once they tired of snogging, they simply sat together in close contentment, his head on her shoulder and their hands intertwined. Jennifer completely forgot that the man—Severus, he had a name now!--was mentally ill, and a pagan, to boot.